To Be Seen
by Emoryems
Summary: Kurt finds himself in a very dark place, balanced on a precipice without someone to pull him away.  Warnings for attempted suicide and depression. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Title: To Be Seen

Rating: R/M

Pairings: Kurt, Blaine, Hudmels; pre-Klaine

Spoilers: takes place between Special Education and A Very Glee Christmas

Warnings: attempted suicide

Word Count: 5,482 (part one)

Summary: Kurt finds himself in a very dark place, balanced on a precipice without someone to pull him away.

A/N: I am _extremely_ nervous about sharing this fic. It has a very close personal meaning, and it feels like I just ripped myself open to show off my soul. Erm... I hope you enjoy :)

~?~

Kurt sits with his back to the wall, legs pulled in tight and arms wrapped around them, holding as hard as he can. His body is nearly vibrating from the tension and a sick feeling is crawling up from his stomach, swirling around to mesh with the horrible headache pounding in his temples. The tears dripping down his face have long since made the thick material of his hoodie damp, and the loose pair of sweats that he is wearing offer little protection from the cold seeping through.

There is no music, no noise except for his shuddering breath, in and out, and in and out. Even the upstairs of the house is silent. No one awake to hear him, no one awake and making noise to distract him. Kurt can feel the melancholy pulling at him, and it makes his face tug back in a grimace, and more tears drip from is eyes as he squeezes them tight.

His room is dark, a blanket of fake security because he can't stand to look out into such familiarity if it is bathed in the artificial light of his multiple lamps and stand-alone lights. Somewhere on his bed, several feet away, he hears his phone vibrate as it receives a text, the sound muffled by the covers. He doesn't know who it is and doesn't care enough to get up and check.

Kurt can feel his heartbeat fluttering in his chest wildly, so powerful that he thinks his back might just pound its way through the wall if he doesn't move, but he can't find the will to do so. His backside is completely numb from being pushed into the hard ground for so long, and his feet are tingling from the cold because he didn't take the time to put some socks on earlier.

There is a small container laying just to his right, about a foot from his hip, and as he pulls his eyes open from their tight clench, he looks at it. It looks innocent, like it could be just another random piece of his life lying in this room, but it's not; it's the end-product of the last few months – fuck, the last _year_. And all he has to do is grab it.

It would be so easy. There would be no reason to cry anymore, no reason to pull on his best face every morning just to at least look like he's fine. It would hurt his dad more than anything, but his dad has Finn and Carole now. He wouldn't have to suffer through years of the shit Kurt knows is coming; he won't have to watch as his son fails in every aspect of his life. He won't have to watch as his son falls apart slowly over the years as the world tears him limb from limb.

And Kurt, well, he won't have to feel so very alone. He won't have to feel anything.

Unclasping his hands from around his knees and shifting slightly to the right, Kurt sends a trembling hand out to take hold of the small cylinder. It feels small and fragile in his hand, but as he brings it closer, examining the label, it starts to take on a more solid appeal. He can almost feel it speaking to him as though it could think, could tell him "just do it."

Giving out a loud gasp, Kurt feels some of the tension drain from his body and thinks, "It's going to be okay – I do this and I won't have to even _think_ about any of this anymore." If he does this, he won't physically be able to worry about anything.

But then he hears a slight movement from above, just the slightest creaking of a floorboard that wouldn't have been caused by any person walking or awake; just the groaning of a house that would be missed without such silence entombing it. It makes him break from the oddly compulsive mindset that has been pulling him in on and off all night, and he drops the container, hearing the tinkling of small pills shuttering around inside, and pulls his arms back in tight as yet another crying jag holds him.

Letting out a small groan of misery and burying it in his knees to muffle the noise as best he can, Kurt feels the horrid emotions rising again. They are heavy, and it feels like they might climb into his mouth, down his throat, and suffocate him.

The cycle has been playing for hours; the emotions rise and he feels tears coming without end, pulling at his stomach and making his breath catch in tight pants around the pain. And then he'll look over at his solution and feel a kind of calm rise to meet the disgusting pain that seems to be suffocating him – he'll look at that little bottle and feel like it's a saviour. Something that he can rely on no matter how horrible his day has been; no matter how horrible his life has been.

All too soon the cycle will repeat, and before he can go any further then examining the bottle, turning the two little arrows to match and starting to pull the lid open, he'll stop.

He's scared. Scared that he will actually do it, actually leave this all behind to end the pain. Scared that he won't do it, that he will have to get up in two hours and start the day anew. So much fear is racing in his mind that he can't decide, can't figure out what he wants to do, no, _needs_ to do.

Kurt's felt this way before, he's sure everyone has at some point, but the past few months, the last few years, they've been weighing down to this, and the pressure just won't stop. Nothing, no matter how it used to make him happy, is keeping him floating like it used to. Shopping has become something that he does out of habit, not because it makes him feel good anymore. Singing is a release, but only some of the time. Some days singing seems like it will be too much, like every word he belts out is pulling him closer and closer to an edge that he just can't back away from.

It would be so very, very easy. He's scared how easy it would be, how much he wants it. He wants other things too; he wants to have a life, he wants to have a kiss with someone who he cares for, one that counts. But it seems like nothing that he wants will ever happen.

Pulling his arms from his legs once again, Kurt reaches out and pulls the bottle back into his hands, turning it around in front of his face. The label is peeling at the edges from where he's fiddled with it over the last three months, and the words are blurred from handling. He knows that he will have to take all of them, and that each little 10 mg pill will be one step closer. Of course they alone won't suffice – Kurt's done his research, he knows that the best chance of this actually working would be to mix some other types of drugs in, too. Or climb in his, admittedly lavish, tub and let the pills pull him under.

But he's prepared, and the second bottle settled comfortably (safely) under his mattress can attest to that.

Popping the top off, Kurt tips the bottle and taps three of the little pills into his hand. They're small enough that he won't need water, that he won't need to move anywhere past his place on the floor. Pulling in his thoughts, he smacks his palm to his open mouth, throwing the pills to the back of his tongue, swallowing as soon as they hit.

They don't get stuck or have trouble going down – they slide smoothly and are gone from one second to the next. Kurt can almost feel disappointment in how easy it was.

As he taps a few more pills into his hand and goes to throw them back too, his phone starts up again, the vibrations sounding tinny and small.

His bed looks good. He has many aches and pains, and he's so very thirsty from hours of sitting in one place and crying. If he was more concerned right now he'd grab a glass of water, but all Kurt wants to do is lay down on his bed, wrapped in his duvet, and drift away.

Quickly swallowing two more of the pills, Kurt caps the bottle and tucks it into the pocket of the large hoodie he's wearing. Standing is difficult – he's been in one place for so long that his knees creak and pop, and his back can barely straighten to accommodate upright movement. But he feels calm, calmer than he's been for a long time.

The distance to his bed is short, and he crawls in, curling on his side with the covers piled over him. He snakes a hand down and pulls the bottle back out of his pocket, flips the lid off, and starts tipping more of the pills into his hand, holding them carefully up to his face. It's dark enough that he can't see clearly, but some light allows him to be able to make out hazy edges to each of the tablets.

He briefly considers reaching over the edge of his bed and beneath the mattress to where the other bottle is hidden, the one that he knows he'll need too. After a moment, he snakes an arm out from under the duvet, feeling the cooler air of the room raise goosebumps on his flesh, and digs around under the mattress. Soon, he feels the plastic cylinder in his palm, and brings it back under the covers with him, setting it down near his chest.

Taking one of the pills from his palm with his other hand, Kurt places it on his tongue and swallows. He's really doing this.

Reaching for another, Kurt is suddenly blinded by his phone as it accepts another text message, buzzing away just in front of him on the bed. The face is up, and when his eyes have adjusted to the light, he can see Blaine's name flash alive.

Slowly pulling another of the small objects from his palm, placing it on his tongue and swallowing, Kurt makes sure he won't loose any of the pills in his hand as he reaches over and grabs his phone.

It's 4:23am and he's been ignoring his phone for about eight hours, by far enough time for a good 20 text messages to accumulate. Most of them are from Blaine.

Tapping with one hand on the screen to bring up the messages, Kurt brings his other hand up, the one filled with about five more pills, and starts to throw them back when he notices the message staring up at him.

_Courage. - Blaine_

It's the same message that Blaine has been sending him since they met, and even though he's since transferred to Dalton, Blaine still sends it to him at random times. It is only one word, and before he met Blaine it wasn't even an important word to him. But now. Now it means so _much_. It means fighting, and not being beaten down; it means tipping his chin up and smiling when all he wants to do it scream and cry. It means living on in the face of adversity. Living.

Looking down at the pills in his hand, Kurt hesitates. He doesn't suddenly want to throw all of the ones he has already swallowed back up, but he doesn't know if he wants to take the rest. He doesn't know how he's feeling right now, how he wants this to go.

The implications feel huge, bigger than they had just moments ago when the calm had settled in and everything seemed so much surer. He looks down and sees the outline of the other pill container, and he can feel his hand starting to sweat around the pills clenched there.

His phone buzzes again, and this time he can feel it against his hand. The message pops up on the screen and it's from Blaine.

_David and Wes are insane. This history test is doomed. Save me? :P - Blaine_

A small smile tugs at his lips, and Kurt clenches his hand around the pills there. He wants to take them, wants to finish this. He also wants to go back and never pull either of the containers out from under his mattress where they have been hidden for so long.

He can feel his heart start to pound louder, and the calm is beginning to dissipate. It feels like he's coming out of a haze, clearing a thick fog from his body and leaving open, raw pain behind. He feels sick, and the tears are already rising again.

As if suddenly realizing how tightly that he's been clenching the pills, those stupid pills that just a minute ago he was so sure were the answer to all of his problems, Kurt releases his fist. The pills stick to his palm for a moment before plopping to the sheets below with a short, muted quality.

Before the anxiety and tears can fully form, before he can calm himself down again and feel that smooth pull that he so desperately needs, but which scares him so very much, Kurt pulls his phone in and hits call on Blaine's name. He does it quick, doesn't want to risk hesitating for a second. If he thinks about it now, he might just chicken out. He's pretty sure that's the opposite of courage.

He's curling into himself and pulling the phone to his ear in the same motion, and he can feel the tiny forms of the pills on the back of his hand that he tucks under his head. The other one is holding his phone to his ear like a bandage to an arterial spray. He saw that on TV once, and the intensity of the hold, the importance of it, seems rather the same.

It only takes three rings before the other end is answered.

"Hey, Kurt! I didn't wake you up, did I? I figured your phone would be on silent overnight, I didn't even think. I'm –"

"Blaine," Kurt cuts in, his voice much shakier than he thought it would be.

There is a short silence on the other end, and Kurt can only just hear two quietly talking voices in the background before Blaine starts speaking again. "Hey," he says quietly, gently, "are you okay?"

Kurt feels his lips pull back as a sob starts to erupt, and the tears are suddenly in his eyes. "No." It comes out broken, cut into pieces by the sudden onslaught of feeling that accompanies talking to Blaine now. It didn't feel this bad when he was alone and everything was quiet, but right now every little emotion that he's been soaking in forever feels ten times amplified. The sobs that have been light and muted since he'd opened the bottle are pulling out of him against his will now, and no matter how hard he tries to reign them in they are bursting out.

"Jesus Kurt, are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance or something? Where's your dad?" Blaine's voice is urgent in his ear, and he can almost see the concern that would be masking the other boy's features.

"No," he manages to gasp out between the sobs, "I – I'm fine. I just –" he cuts off again, trying to take a few calming breaths.

Blaine almost sounds like he's there with him when he speaks, and Kurt is at first washed in a feeling of comfort, and then dread as he only feels the soft duvet around him. "Kurt? Come on; tell me what's going on."

Kurt can't seem to shake the sobs, and they are stealing his breath faster than he can bring it in. He's feeling lightheaded and panicked, and the duvet he'd crawled into for comfort is heavy on his form, and so hot he's sure he's burning. Sweat is beading on his forehead even as he feels chills trailing his chest and upper arms. The turmoil is building and building, engulfing him like he's never felt before.

"Kurt. Kurt! Come on, calm down. Hey, it's okay. It's okay. You need to breathe. Come on, listen to me, Kurt. Okay? Just breathe with me. Come on, you can't keep that up or you'll be sick." Blaine's voice is in ringing in his head along with everything else, and slowly, Kurt starts to feel it working. "Yeah, that's better. Just slow everything down and keep listening to me, okay?"

Kurt can still feel his heart pounding in his chest, and his breathing is almost squeaky as he pulls it in through the tightness of his throat, but he's calming gradually. A few more deep breaths and the sobs are starting to abate, and all through it Blaine's voice is washing over him, soft and reassuring.

"That's good. Good." It almost sounds like Blaine is comforting himself as he says that. Kurt is nodding slightly, taking short and shuddering breaths as he listens. "Better?"

Kurt closes his eyes tightly and takes another calming breath. "Yeah. I – yeah."

"What's going on?" Blaine says it softly, and Kurt doesn't know what to say.

The silence stretches for a few seconds, and then Kurt hears the sound of footfalls on Blaine's end as he moves somewhere. A door shuts, and then there is a creaking sound that Kurt supposes is Blaine sitting down.

Kurt's just about to try and articulate what he's feeling, what he was about to _do_, when he realizes that his limbs feel heavy. The arm holding his cell phone to his ear isn't pushing strongly, it's barely holding on, and he can feel a more artificial calm descending slowly, having built up as he cried. "Oh God," he mutters, even though he doesn't believe. "Blaine. I – fuck. I can't believe I just, oh _fuck_." Kurt knows he's not usually that vulgar, but the words are just slipping out. And starting to slur.

The urgency is back in Blaine's voice, and Kurt can hear the other boy moving again. "What's going on Kurt? What's wrong?"

"I just," Kurt starts, pausing momentarily, "I took something." Kurt's voice ends in a whisper, and he is so washed out that the tears from a moment ago feel like they will never flow again.

"Kurt, where's your dad? Can you get to him? Jesus, I'm calling an ambulance."

Kurt jolts when he hears that, exclaiming, "No! Wait! Wait, Blaine – don't do that. It's okay, I-I didn't take enough to really do much, I promise."

"How much, Kurt? You have to tell me, or I'm dialling 911."

Thinking back over the last little while, Kurt finds that he can remember every single one of them – what they felt like, what they tasted like. "Seven pills. Just seven. Not even enough to really do much - they're only sleeping pills, I swear. Please, just don't call an ambulance – I don't need a hospital. Please," he pleads, finding himself feeling desperate.

The other end is quiet, and the only thing that Kurt can hear through his phone is some harsh, but jagged breathing. It occurs to him that, maybe, Blaine doesn't exactly know what to do right about now, either. It's a terrifying thought because of anyone Kurt's ever known – even his father since the heart attack – Blaine is the most put-together. And he can dole out life advice better than Kurt's closet can supply scarves.

The effects of the pills are becoming more obvious now, and Kurt feels how the trembling in his legs, arms and shoulders has let up, allowing him to lie more comfortably.

"Kurt," says Blaine through the speaker, his voice shaking just enough that Kurt knows he's worried, unsure, but still in control. "Kurt, I need you to do something, okay?" When Kurt doesn't answer right away he continues, "Kurt? Hey, you've got to answer me here."

Swallowing and licking his lips, Kurt whispers, "I'm here. What," his speech stumbles a bit, but he picks up quickly, "what d'you want me to do?" Kurt doesn't really want to do anything right now. Maybe he'd like to push the 'pause' button on his life and figure that out, but it isn't an option that is available.

"I need you to go and get your dad. Can you do that for me?" Blaine's voice is briefly overpowered by a static crackle at the end, and Kurt wonders if he's passing through a place with bad reception, but then brushes that off. Blaine's in his dorm at Dalton, and they always have good reception from there.

Kurt entertains the request for a minute, and he's even started to pull back the covers, letting the cool air of the basement wash over him. But then he decides that it's really much nicer where he is; besides, he's getting tired and his limbs feel heavy and numb. Pulling the duvet back over him and sinking into his old, curled position, Kurt can feel the little pills resting under his hand again. They've become tacky from his warmth, and probably from the remnant tears, and they feel like they might just be the size of mountains if he really wants to dwell on it.

Shaking his head a little, Kurt realizes that Blaine has been talking with increasing desperation into the phone.

"Kurt. Kurt? Co-"

"I'm here," he interrupts. "I don't really wanna move right now, Blaine." He closes his eyes, and the darkness is comforting, like it has been all night. The smooth feeling of calm that has also overcome him is also comforting, even if it is accompanied with a dim recollection of fear. He can't really figure out why that is right now, though.

"Come on, Kurt. You can't be alone right now. Go get your dad – I'll stay on the line, okay?"

At that Kurt's mind goes to what might happen if he goes and gets his dad. It's not something he wants to entertain, he finds, when his mind supplies the image of just how disappointed his dad will be. How upset, and worried, and _stressed_. His dad can't take more stress right now, not after the heart attack, and especially not brought on by him. Kurt can't do that to his dad; and as he's contemplating this, he realizes that maybe he couldn't do it even if he wanted. His body is starting to feel even heavier, and his mind feels slow and uncoordinated so that he has trouble following through on each thought process.

"No. No, I can't. Blaine, I can't – he. I. I can't do that to him. I just. I'm so _stupid_." Kurt knows he sounds bad – he can almost feel the thickness of his words in his mouth. It reminds him of what getting drunk off of the stuff April gave him was like. All of his vocal elegance went out the window then, too.

"Okay, okay – calm down. It's fine." There is an edge to Blaine's voice that Kurt has never heard before; rough, dark, _upset_. He did that, he's made Blaine feel that way.

"Oh God, Blaine. It's not fine. I-I'm so sorry. So sorry." Little hiccupping breaths are interrupting the flow of his speech and the words come out slurred and broken in turn. "I don't know what to do. I'm so sorry."

He hears a harsh breath hit the speaker on the other end. "Hey, no. Don't be like that; it's okay. You know what I want you to do Kurt?"

Kurt closes his eyes and shakes his head against the bed, back and forth. "No."

"I want you to sing me a song."

"What song?" he whispers back, sniffling lightly. The arm that Kurt had been laying on in his now loosely-curled position is starting to go numb, and his fingers are tingling uncomfortably. Shifting to lay more on his back than on his side, Kurt's hand brushes over hard plastic. Wrapping his hand around the cylinder, he brings it up to rest against his chest, where he can feel his heart beating a steady rhythm. As he waits for Blaine to answer, Kurt allows his fingers to absently traverse the grooved edge of the cap, twirling it until he can feel the larger section where the arrow resides.

"Whatever you feel like. Okay? Just sing me something."

Kurt tries to think of something, anything, but nothing seems to be right. While lately he has found that singing has been more difficult, more strained, he's never actually been at a point when _nothing_ felt right. There has always been a song that described how he felt, that would compliment any situation, but right now, in _this_ moment, he just does not have the will to choose one.

Kurt, as he contemplates this revelation, can just barely hear the sound quality on Blaine's end of the phone change. He misses the sound of Blaine's breath as it hits the speaker almost instantly – it has been peripheral, steady and comforting behind everything. Everything sounds tinny now, and there is more background noise, too, and he wonders if Blaine is watching TV with David and Wes. But, no, he remembers, they were pulling an all-nighter to study for a history exam on Monday.

"Kurt?" comes Blaine's voice after a moment, reconnecting Kurt to the moment, to reality. "Hey, I want to hear your voice."

Closing his eyes, Kurt bites his lips for a second, and then responds as best he can. "I don't. I can't." Frustrated with his inability to articulate words properly, Kurt pinches his lips together and huffs out a soft breath. "I can't, Blaine."

Still allowing his fingers to absently rub over the bottle in his hand, hearing the sounds of the pills tinkling in their confinement, Kurt lets his mind drift. He feels tired, exhausted. He wants to close his eyes and never open them. He wants to feel warm arms hold him tight. He wants to feel good. Or nothing. Anything is better than this, what he's feeling now.

Blaine hasn't said anything, and Kurt might have thought his friend had been disconnected if it wasn't for the dull tapping he can hear on the other end, the constant background growling of noise. But Blaine isn't talking, and for every second that silence reigns, Kurt feels the dark pit in his chest growing.

He misses being able to sit in silence with someone and not feel alone.

"Are you still there?"

"Yeah, Kurt. I'm still here. How are you doing?" Blaine's voice is in his ear, and no matter how much he loves hearing the other boy sing, it has never sounded more beautiful than when he's directing all of his attention to Kurt.

Shrugging to himself, Kurt feels sleep start to pull at him. "I'm," he says, and struggles a moment for the words to say. "I'm tired. So, so tired."

"You need to stay awake for me, okay? Just for a little while longer."

"I'm sorry, Blaine. God. I just." Kurt closes his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, you're not going to fall asleep on me here," Blaine says, his voice less urgent now, but still intense. "Why don't you tell me about your weekend? You were supposed to go shopping with Mercedes yesterday, right?"

Kurt can feel a slight clench in his chest when he thinks about the last few days. "It was," he starts, then pauses, and whispers, almost to himself. "It was lonely."

"What do you mean?" Blaine inquires gently.

Even with as tired and listless as he feels, Kurt's throat tightens and his breathing starts to become more laboured. "I feel so _horrible_. Just… so disgusting and upset. All the time." He feels so stupid admitting this, especially to Blaine, who's been so great, and wonderful, and _strong_. "And I just. I'm all alone," he murmurs. Two tears escape his right eye, dropping to the mattress below.

Before Blaine can start in, either in protest, or in support, or whatever Kurt imagines he might say to a confession like that, the door at the top of the stairs opens, and a flood of light flows into the room. Through the earpiece on his phone, Kurt hears a buzzing signifying that Blaine's just received a text message.

Kurt hears footsteps start down the stairs, and as he peaks out from beneath the covers he sees Finn making his way down, and he also hears Blaine breathe out, "Finally."

Panic grips at his chest, and Kurt reacts. Limbs heavy, he scrambles at the mattress to find all of the little pills that he had dropped, to shove the second pill bottle into the pocket of his hoodie where the other one still rests. Anything to get all of this out of sight.

He can't have Finn see this; he doesn't want that kind of embarrassment, can't stand the thought of it. But he can't seem to get his hands to work properly, and the little pills are difficult to pick up. His fingers graze over them a few times, but even though he knows this should be easy – he's always had nimble fingers - it feels like his digits have tripled in size and are on a two second time delay.

As he reaches for the unopened bottle his hand grazes it uselessly, and as he tries again the bottle skitters away and over the edge of the bed. The sound of it hitting the ground is muted by the carpet it lands on, and Kurt wants to scream in frustration.

Kurt can hear Blaine's voice distantly from where he's dropped his phone, and he can hear the creak of the stairs as Finn reaches the bottom. Pulling his pillow down to cover the pills instead of continuing to try and pick them up, Kurt lays back down and pulls the covers up, hoping that it is still too dark for Finn to have seen him moving, or that he was quiet enough that Finn hadn't heard him before.

Finn's footsteps are stumbling but cautious as he makes his way across the room, and Kurt tries to stay still as he hears Finn say, "Kurt? You awake?" The voice is from only a few feet away and Kurt wishes that Finn will give up and leave, hopes that he will stumble his way back up the stairs and forget he ever ventured down the stairs.

There is a brief moment of silence before Kurt hears the sound of rattling as one of his lamps is turned on, illuminating the room in light bright enough that Kurt has to clench his eyes closed. His reaction is obviously enough to alert Finn that he is awake, and the taller boy moves to stand at the edge of the bed.

"Jesus, Kurt. What the hell." Finn's voice is wavering, unsure. "I just got a text from Blaine, and I come down here and, and… What the hell, man?"

Kurt opens his eyes and sees Finn looking down at his feet, and something heavy and thick settles in his stomach, and he feels nauseous. The bottle of pills that he had sent skittering away is inches from Finn's socked toes, its hard plastic glinting in the light of his lamp as Finn stares at it with a deep furrow in his brow.

Closing his eyes, Kurt knows that he can't lie – that he won't be able to pretend that none of this happened. Soon Finn will run upstairs and get their parents, bring them down here where they will see what Kurt's done. See how weak he is.

Kurt doesn't open his eyes again, sequestering himself in the darkness behind his lids as he hears Finn reach down and pick up the bottle. He can still hear Blaine over his phone, can make out the occasional "what's going on?" as it floats through the speaker, and he tries to tune it out.

The sound of Finn's footsteps as they thud across the room and up the first few stairs, the loudness of his voice as he calls out to their parents, it all makes Kurt want to drift away. Makes him want to grab onto the hand of sleep and follow it down into nothingness.

As his mind churns slowly through possibilities and wishes, his body wilts into the mattress as his muscles relax further. With the pounding of hurried footsteps plucking a staccato on the edges of his consciousness, the world fades away into a creeping abyss, taking with it the last vestiges of his thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

~?~

"Kurt? Sweetie, you have to wake up."

Carole's voice breaks through the haze of sleep that has fallen over him, and Kurt can barely manage to open his eyes. He is sinking back down into the abyss of sleep even as his mind catches on and momentarily contemplates why Carole would sound so worried. Urgent. His mind slips away with little more than a quick thought - he's so tired.

When a set of hands, large and familiar, grab him and pull him upward to lean against a warm, solid body, Kurt opens his eyes reluctantly. The light of the room is dim, but he can see Carole crouching before him, her pyjamas wrinkled and face creased from sleep.

"Hey," says Carole, her face close to his. "I need you to tell me how many you took."

Kurt's brows pull together in confusion as he tries to remember what he would have taken, what Carole is asking about. Everything seems muddled, like he's scraping through a thick fog that has choked out any semblance of a clear mind.

"What?" he asks, blinking blearily. His limbs are heavy and limp, and every breath is oddly difficult to take, like something heavy is sitting on his chest.

"Kurt," Carole says, her voice insistent but soft, "focus, honey. I need to know how many you took." She holds up a little pill container, its familiar peeling label pinched under her fingers. Seeing it in her hand, seeing what he has kept hidden for so long exposed like this, sends a shock of recognition through Kurt.

Crunching his brows together in concentration, Kurt licks his lips slowly. Short flashes of memory are playing in his mind, but it all seems so far away, so out of his reach, that it is hard to think. "Five?" he guesses and looks down at the duvet partially covering his legs, trying to remember. "No, no – seven. There – I took seven." Sniffing lightly and closing his eyes as exhaustion pulls at his lids, Kurt mumbles, "Only seven."

It was only seven. Not enough to do much – not enough to do anything permanent.

"You feeling tired, Kurt?"

Kurt nods lethargically in answer to Carole's question, and sags fully into the warm body propping him up, allowing sleep to drag him under once again.

~?~

Kurt jerks awake what feels like a split second later to the sensation of his shoulders being gently shaken, big fingers gripping at his muscles in little points of pressure. He cracks his eyes open and sees his dad standing over him, and the loss of him at his side leaves him cold and wanting to curl under his duvet more fully.

"Is this all?" His dad is holding up a pill bottle and looking intently at Kurt. "Kurt, answer me. Are these the only ones?" There is something in his voice, a tension that Kurt can't quite place, can't compare to anything else he has ever heard from the man.

Kurt pauses for a minute, unsure of what to do, and starts to shake his head. Halfway through the motion, however, he changes it to a nod. "Yes."

His dad is looking at him like he knows something isn't right, like he can tell that Kurt is lying, but Kurt doesn't want him to know. If Kurt shows him the other bottle he'll know how long he's been planning this, how much research he has done into how it would work.

"Are you sure?" his dad asks, eyebrows raised.

"Yes." He makes his eyes meet his dad's, keeps his gaze steady, unwavering. He doesn't know when he became so good at lying, but it isn't something he's proud of. Especially right now.

His father nods and walks to his little bathroom, flicking on the light as he enters. When he's out of view, Kurt hears the hollow 'pop' of the pill container coming open and then little tinkling splashes as his dad dumps the pills down the toilet.

Hearing the sound of the flushing toilet, Kurt reaches down, hand skimming over the material of his hoodie until he reaches into the pocket. As his hand clasps around the container there, a sense of guilt-laced relief overtakes him.

He regrets lying to his dad, but he doesn't regret keeping this to himself. It is almost a grounding stone of sorts, something that he can think about when it all gets to be too much. He's done that for months, thought about his little bottles of pills and built up a kind of reverence for them, taken them out and just held them when things got bad. He honestly cannot remember how many times he has just sat, crying and feeling like the world was falling in around him, with his little bottles clutched in his hands thinking "maybe tonight."

Hearing his dad flick the bathroom light off, Kurt lets go of the bottle, letting his fingers drag almost longingly over the warmed plastic, and wraps one arm around his waist, just so he can feel the shape of the bottle as it digs into his stomach and forearm.

His dad sits down on the edge of his bed, shifting him so that Kurt is leaning against his side once again.

Absently noting that his dad seems to be trying as hard as he can to be close to him, Kurt falls into a place halfway between sleep and wakefulness. The world is dim around him, consisting of the darkness behind his lids and the occasional sound from outside. He has been drifting for a short time when Carole starts to speak, and Kurt wonders when she had returned. Or when she had left in the first place.

"He doesn't need medical assistance, not for the amount he took. But…" Her voice is a whisper, ghosting into Kurt's mind smoothly.

His dad shifts under him with a sigh, bringing a hand up to thread through Kurt's hair. "But he's obviously not okay."

"You need to make a decision. We can take him in and they'll probably put him in 72 hour observation. Or, well, or you can wait it out, make sure he's not alone, talk to him." Carole leaves the end of her sentence open.

"But – what if he tries again." The statement, the fear in his father's tone, focuses Kurt's mind from its pointless drifting. "Damn it, Carole, he's always been so strong. Even before he had his growth spurt, and he was just so _tiny_, you could practically see the strength oozing off of him."

Kurt wants to scoff here, tell his dad just how strong he really is, but he stays silent.

"He-he's my son, and I never saw this coming. I don't know what to do here, Carole."

Kurt hears Carole shift, moving closer to his dad. "Burt, honey, Kurt's really good at hiding the important things, the things he doesn't want anyone to know. And now that he's at Dalton it's even harder to get a handle on how he's doing. You couldn't have known."

She's right, Kurt knows, because he has always tried to hide the bad things from his dad. He can't recall exactly when he started, he thinks it might have been just after his mom died, but when things were bad at school or when something got him down, he tried to keep it to himself. He has always felt a need to protect his dad from, well, from _him_.

It's not his dad's fault that his son is like this; his father never asked for the harassment and the hate-driven actions of the world. His dad has always supported him, always made sure that Kurt knew he was loved for who he was, and Kurt feels like he owes his dad so much for that.

The familiar feeling of melancholy settled firmly in him, Kurt lets himself drift.

~?~

Some time later, Kurt can't tell how long, he is falling asleep, so exhausted and devastatingly tired that his head lolls onto his father's shoulder and his eyes slide shut. When he jerks awake a few seconds later he doesn't immediately know what woke him, but as his mind clears he realizes that the warm shoulder beneath his head is shaking with repressed sobs. There is the sound of choked back crying from just above, and Kurt registers with shock that it is his dad.

"Dad?" he asks, trying to sit up and look at the man. "Dad, are you okay?"

Burt sobs a little harder, closing his eyes and bringing one hand up to cover his face. He doesn't react to Kurt's question, and Kurt doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to make this right. All he knows is that this is his fault.

"I'm sorry," he says, leaning into his dad's shoulder again. "I'm so sorry."

He doesn't know what he's apologising for, not really. Because as much as he wishes it could be about having done this at all, there is an underlying feeling, a truth really, that he's sorry he never finished what he started.

But he also thinks that he is apologising for everything – every little thing that he has ever done to cause his dad pain. To make his life harder than it would have been if he had never existed.

The sound and feel of his father falling apart all around him, Kurt closes his eyes again and waits for sleep to take him. Anything would be better than being coherent right now – anything would be better than having to know how badly he has hurt his dad.

It won't come, though, not this time. Kurt is caught, trapped by his inability to do anything, and brimming with undercurrents of so much agony that he is sure if he were fully coherent right now, he would be driven insane by it.

At a loss of what to do, Kurt squeezes his fists into tight balls, allowing his nails to bite into the tender flesh of his palms. The pain flows through him, barely even registering in comparison to the emotional turmoil that is roiling under the false calm, and he wishes he had the strength to squeeze harder. Maybe then it would be enough.

Kurt keeps his eyes closed as his dad's sobs taper off, leaving his father silent and Kurt feeling even emptier than before. You would think that the loneliness would have abated now that someone is here with him, now that he isn't doing this alone, but it hasn't. In some ways it has actually gotten worse.

He doesn't want to give his dad any signal that he was wholly awake through that, a moment that was so personal and unlike his father. He also doesn't want to open his eyes and see the confusion and disappointment in his dad's eyes, see the anger. Because he knows that his dad will be at a loss at how to deal with this, that he won't understand how Kurt feels all of the time. How he just isn't strong enough to feel good.

Pain pierces his chest because he knows that this is his fault; all of this trouble he is causing the people he loves is because he isn't strong enough. No matter how hard he tries to crawl from the pit of despair that he's fallen into, he can't. But he should be able to.

His dad has always praised him for how strong he is, how much like his mother he is. But he isn't. He could never measure up to the high pedestal he has been placed on.

It kills him that he will have to shatter the illusion his father has built of him. Show all of the ugly under his mask.

Because he's not good enough, and he never will be.

Kurt feels the familiar misery swirling in him, its icy fingers digging in and refusing to let go. Filled with loss, Kurt barely reacts when his father suddenly begins to speak.

"Why would you even think that was an option, kid?" His dad's voice is filled with pain and confusion and _anger_.

Kurt doesn't answer, instead cracking his eyes open and staring at his bedding, mapping the wrinkles as though to memorize them. One of his pillows is still laying part-way down his bed, covering the pills he'd dropped; he hopes his dad won't see them. They are just another reminder of how weak he is, how he couldn't even do that right.

"You should have come to me."

His dad's right. If he was stronger, if he was more like his mom, who was _amazing_, he would have. But instead he did this. Kurt didn't think he could have felt any worse than he had last night, but this is worse. Even through the calm and drowsiness afforded him by the pills – this is worse.

Knowing, rather than just thinking, that his dad is disappointed in him, makes him feel small and pathetic. Useless. His dad, the rest of his family, his friends, they deserve so much more than him. Someone who is strong enough to stand up to their problems instead of ending up like him.

"I love you so much, Kurt. And maybe we don't see eye-to-eye on everything, but buddy, you have to know that I'd do anything for you. That you can come to me for any reason."

His dad is quiet for a few minutes, and Kurt can feel him hitching with silent tears, every jerk of his chest flowing into Kurt and battering his heart. His father should never have to suffer like this, especially not because of him.

"I will always love you, no matter what. I hope you know that."

Kurt lets out a little whoosh of air, remembering all of the times that his dad has said something similar. The man has always made sure that he knew he was loved, and Kurt is so lucky to have that with him at all times.

After a moment where the air is filled with a pregnant silence, Kurt shifts slightly against his dad and mutters, "I know."

"How long have you been feeling like this, Kurt?"

Kurt bites his bottom lip, the soft flesh denting easily under the force of his teeth, and tries to reign in his tears. Taking a calming breath, but still stumbling over his words, Kurt says, "I'm sorry, dad. I tried so hard – I just – I didn't know what to do. And it wouldn't go away."

"Aw, buddy," his dad sighs, wrapping an arm tightly around his shoulders to pull him in even closer.

Sniffling and shifting so that he can lean his head against his dad's chest, Kurt closes his eyes and listens for the 'lub dub' of his father's heart.

"You know – just before she got pregnant with you, your mom had some difficulties. She stopped being interested in all of the things she loved, she – she lost her spark, you know?"

Surprise fills Kurt as his dad speaks, the words running through him like a shock of electricity.

"Back then I didn't know what to do – when I was growing up and someone was down in the dumps we told them to buck up, get over it. It was the way I grew up, the way a lot of people did. Do.

"Your mom and I, especially me, didn't know what to do. Didn't understand what was happening. We never told you, or really spoke of it afterwards, but it almost broke us, you know? There were a few times that – well, that we were _this_ close to splitting."

Kurt's heart starts a fast staccato in his chest as the implications run through him. He never knew – never even suspected – that his parents had problems that large. His mom and dad had always seemed so happy, so _perfect_ together.

"But we fought for it, what we had, and I will never regret that. I loved – love – her so much, Kurt."

Kurt leans into the hand his dad brings up to run over his forehead, brushing the disarrayed hair of his fringe to the side. The touch is comforting and familiar, making Kurt ache as though raw and exposed.

"I learned something important, Kurt, something that I never taught you because I always thought you knew." Burt reaches his hand over and puts his fingers under Kurt's chin, lifting his head up so that they are making eye contact. "Sometimes you can't get along alone – sometimes you need to lean on the people you love and let them help you." His dad pauses here, and then continues with such sincerity in his voice that it is almost a physical blow. "That isn't a weakness, Kurt."

Eyes caught and held by his father's, Kurt sees only honesty and sadness.

"Maybe I wouldn't have understood what you are going through, Kurt, but I would have tried. And I do understand that sometimes, these things happen."

A tear slips from Kurt's right eye, splashing down on his dad's hand.

"I'm here for you, buddy. So many people love and care for you, and we won't leave you alone, okay?"

Keeping contact for a brief moment longer, Kurt nods even as more tears build and slide down his cheeks. A sob rises and hitches in his chest as his dad pulls his hand out from under his chin to wipe some of the tears away before shifting slightly to wrap Kurt into a full hug.

"We're going to get you some help. We'll figure this out. Together."

When he pulls back, Kurt relaxes back into his old position leaning into his dad's side. As he moves he hears the near-silent tinkling of small pills shifting as the bottle in his pocket moves with him. Biting his lip again, he darts his eyes toward his dad.

"Dad?"

His dad looks down at him, eyes bloodshot and shining with sorrow and exhaustion, and hums in question.

"I lied." Kurt feels apprehension rise in him, causing his hand to shake as he reaches into his hoodie and wraps his fingers around the bottle resting there. "I – there's more." He brings his hand out of the covers and hesitantly offers the second pill bottle to his father. "That's all of them."

Reaching out slowly to take the bottle from Kurt's hand, Burt nods tersely and clutches the small container tight in his fist. As he pockets the pills, his eyes squeeze shut and press out more tears. "Thank you, Kurt."

Kurt nods, head pressed into his dad's shoulder, and sits in silence with his father.

~?~

Some time later, having lost track of how many times he has fallen in and out of sleep, Kurt wakes up alone. The covers around him are warm, but there is no comforting presence next to him, and for a moment he feels all of the loneliness that had slightly abated return.

Lifting his torso from the bed, the duvet slipping from his shoulders to pool at his waist, Kurt scans the room. He almost sighs in relief when his eyes find Finn sitting with his head hung low and shoulders slumped, and then lays back down as his arms protest holding his weight. The noise of him falling back to the bed is loud enough that Finn looks up suddenly, his back going straight as though at attention.

"Hey," Finn says softly, standing and moving the chair closer to Kurt's bed. He sits down, posture awkward and unsure.

Kurt dips his head in acknowledgement, but doesn't speak. Instead, he turns his attention to the small rectangular window that faces the back side of their house; the pane of glass has begun to light up with a blue-grey hue signifying the impending rising of the sun.

That means that it is almost 7:30, an hour after he would usually wake up to get ready for school.

"Mom and Burt are upstairs," Finn says, and Kurt watches as he fists the material of his pyjamas and then lets go, smoothing the wrinkled material with his palms. "Blaine's here."

Something surges in Kurt's chest as he remembers hitting 'call' on his cell, sobbing madly into the phone as he curled on his bed. Blaine's voice had been so worried, so reassuring. In some ways he is glad he called his friend, in others he wishes he had never crept back into his bed and read the texts.

Kurt directs his attention at his stepbrother when he shifts in the chair. The other boy looks like he wants to say something, but doesn't know how.

"Finn?"

"I don't understand." Finn is looking at him with such broken-hearted confusion that Kurt wants to offer to make him warm milk and scream at him at the same time. "I thought you were okay now."

A spark of anger ignites in Kurt, but it doesn't do more than make its presence known before extinguishing, suffocated by the weight of Kurt's exhaustion. "Finn," Kurt starts, but he can't think of anything to say.

"It's just - I thought going to Dalton would make you happy."

Kurt opens his mouth, but there is nothing he can say, nothing that he particularly wants to say, that could make Finn understand. He doesn't completely understand it himself.

He can't remember when he started to feel so horrible all of the time. Some time between the increasing locker slams and his father's heart attack, maybe when he realized how alone he is. Or maybe it has been building forever, until it finally lead him to where he is now. It doesn't really matter.

What is important is that once it was there, once it had a hold of him, it never went away. Instead it built up inside of him, growing like a cancer to infest every part of him; it has eaten at his mind and body, its ravishing hunger devouring any scrape of happiness.

All of the little things, the daily jeers of his peers, the cruelty of society, they stopped bouncing off. Now they pierce his skin and dig inside, festering and irritating.

Kurt used to think that once he got through high school and out of Lima everything would be okay – he would move to New York and live among people who could accept him. But he doesn't think that way any more. No, this is going to follow him everywhere he goes, and for the rest of his life he will have to deal with the small-minded people of the world. He will never get his happily ever after.

Finn is still staring at him imploringly, waiting for Kurt to explain.

Biting the inside of his mouth and keeping silent, Kurt rolls to face the other direction, away from Finn. It is childish, immature, but he doesn't want to talk to his stepbrother. Not right now, and maybe never.

~?~

When Kurt wakes this time there are soft voices that can barely be made out drifting down the stairs, just loud enough to be heard, but not understood. His pillow is soft beneath his head and the duvet that he's relied on for warmth in his cool basement room is tucked around him snugly. He's curled on his right side, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other pulled up to his chest.

"You're awake."

Kurt's eyes fly open, locking onto Blaine's, who is sitting beside his bed in the chair Finn had moved there. His friend's clothes are rumpled and untucked, his normally well-gelled hair loose and curly, and his eyes red from either exhaustion or crying. Kurt doesn't want to think about the latter.

"Hi," he says even as slight discomfort sweeps over him.

Blaine stands from the chair and moves closer, coming to sit on the edge of his bed so that he can wipe a lock of hair from Kurt's forehead. The action is intimate in a way that Kurt has never experienced outside of his family, and he wonders what it means that Blaine feels comfortable doing it.

Hearing Blaine's voice now, the words so close to him, takes him back a few hours to where he was curled under his duvet, his cell phone held tightly to his ear, wishing that Blaine was there with him instead of just the sound of him through the phone.

"I'm really glad you called me Kurt. You know you can do that any time you need to, right? That I meant it when I said I would be there for you?"

"I know."

Blaine's eyes are wide, their colour dulled by the lack of light shining into them, but still sincere. "I will always listen if you need to talk."

"I know."

He wants to talk to Blaine, tell him everything about what he is feeling. He has kept it to himself for _so long_, and it has been weighing on him. Licking his lips nervously, Kurt says,"I can't remember what it's like."

Blaine squeezes Kurt's upper arm gently and asks, "What?"

"Being – I just." Kurt huffs out a breath and turns to face away from Blaine, wrapping his arms around his middle. The truth is at the tip of his tongue, and he wants to say it, but there is something holding him back, something that is part embarrassment and part shame.

"Hey," Blaine says, and the bed under Kurt shifts with the other boys' movements. "Don't shut me out."

Kurt freezes when Blaine moves in close, lying down on the bed behind him, over the covers but close.

"What can't you remember?" Blaine's breath brushes over the back of Kurt's neck when he speaks, and Kurt pushes back a little, feeling Blaine's chest against his back.

Kurt stares at his hands, taking in the long pale digits and well-kept cuticles. "Being happy. How it was – before." Kurt closes his eyes and presses his head into his pillow. "I'm scared. Tired. Of feeling this way and not knowing if I'll ever feel good again."

"Kurt," Blaine starts, his mouth close to Kurt's ear, "why didn't you tell me – tell anyone – that you were feeling like this?"

Kurt doesn't have an answer, not one that is definite or singular, to encompass all of the reasons, those fully conceived or otherwise, as to why he didn't. How do you tell someone that you thought they wouldn't believe you, that you thought they would think you were looking for attention. How do you tell someone who you care for that you didn't trust them to be able to help?

Kurt wanted to tell someone, wanted to climb the stairs to where his father would be sitting and watching TV, and just curl up next to him and let the words flow out. But there was always a fear, and Kurt doesn't know if it was all in his head, that he was causing this, that no one could help because this was all his fault. And anyone he told would think that, too.

"Kurt?" Blaine prompts. He sounds so worried, so invested in anything Kurt will say. Just hearing that in his voice is enough that Kurt tries to find the words.

"I didn't know how to say it," Kurt explains with a slight shrug. "And – it's just – I thought that people wouldn't believe me. That they would tell me to get over it." Kurt glances over his shoulder and meets Blaine's eyes. "But I couldn't. I tried so hard to make it go away, but it just got worse. I didn't know what to do."

Blaine takes in a sharp gasp, quiet but hurt, like Kurt had said something so painful he felt it physically. He then shifts in closer and wraps an arm around Kurt, holding him in a pseudo-hug that wraps Kurt even more tightly into the duvet.

If any one else were to hold him like this he would probably feel uncomfortable with the closeness, but it's Blaine. He couldn't really explain it, especially because they've only known each other for a couple of months, but Blaine is easy to be around.

"When you called me – when you told me that you had taken something – I felt my heart stop." Blaine says suddenly, arm tightening a bit.

Kurt wants to pull away from Blaine when he says this, wants to cover his ears and muffle out the confession.

"I was so scared, Kurt. I thought that I would be too late, or Finn wouldn't get my messages. I thought that maybe it was already too late, that I should have called an ambulance the second you told me."

"I'm sorry," Kurt whispers.

Blaine lets out a little breath of frustration and shakes his head, his hair brushing over Kurt's shoulder at the movement. "Don't be sorry, Kurt. I was so worried about you – you're my best friend. But don't be sorry for calling me."

They lie in silence for a time, Kurt's mind churning over everything that has and hasn't been said.

"I don't want to die." Kurt absently rubs his fingers over the smooth expanse of material beneath him, the cool cloth shifting with the weight of his hand. "Not really."

Blaine doesn't move, doesn't say anything, remaining as a solid presence at Kurt's back. Kurt knows that he is almost as lost as Kurt is, maybe even more so, but he has this air to him, this _presence_, that is comforting, steadying, to Kurt.

"I just – I don't want to live another day feeling like this. So wrong, so horrible." Kurt's mouth pulls down in a cringe as he stops moving his hand and sniffs. "I'm tired, Blaine."

Blaine is silent for a couple of seconds, and Kurt can imagine that his face pulled into an expression of sorrow.

"You'll get through this," Blaine says eventually. He sounds sure, like he knows it to be true. "You've got your family and friends. You've got me. You're not alone."

The declaration makes Kurt want to cry. Only hours ago he had told Blaine that he felt alone, and he still does, but he thinks that maybe sometime soon he will be able to believe that he isn't.

"Thank you."

Blaine doesn't say anything in response, but the way he squeezes Kurt just a little bit more firmly is answer enough.

Mid-morning sunshine is pouring in through his basement window, painting his walls bright and yellow. Kurt shifts so that he has an arm under his pillow, propping his head up so that he can watch the play of light across the grey expanses.

With the darkness gone and the companionable silence between him and Blaine, the sound of his family talking in the kitchen above, the panic and desperate ache of loneliness has lessened, but not abated. He wonders how much of what he is feeling is because of the drugs, how much is because he knows how much support he has.

The dull weight of sadness still fills him, but the overwhelming sense of despondency, of having no other way out, has been replaced with something else. Something that lets his mind travel in a direction he never let it before: toward the possibility of getting help. Of someday not feeling like he would rather die than live another moment with the constant desolation.

~End~

A/N: There are two cut scenes and additional author's notes at my journal for anyone who is interested :) I also appreciate any kind of feedback, whether you liked it or maybe thought it wasn't so good (although constructive criticism is always better). Thanks for reading 3


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